


Beyond the Shadow: The Story Never Told

by DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis



Category: The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Gen, Origin Story, Prequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:11:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis/pseuds/DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my attempt at an alternate POV story from a Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis centered perspective (basically playing on the unreliable narrator conundrum brought forth by the fact we are only told of the events surrounding TGBH from Zero's perspective). </p><p>Chapter one is exceptionally brief, basically just glossing over the family history throughout the ages and their place in "modern-day" Zubrowka (1932). The subsequent chapters focus on Dmitri's personal history, i.e. early childhood/adolescence, early adulthood/career, planning out and executing the murder of Mme. D.u.T.</p><p>So, basically, it mostly takes place way before most of the main events in TGBH. It is going to mostly center on Dmitri, but will divulge further detail on his family relations as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What's In A Name? (A Brief History of The Family Desgoffe-und-Taxis)

At the heart of Lutz rested an imperial castle-like structure built of formidable grey brick, which had been erected sometime in the 16th century and, on its black wrought-iron gates, it bore the family crest of the most distinguished family in Zubrowka: The Desgoffe-und-Taxis. 

Although not of royal lineage, the family Desgoffe-und-Taxis was nonetheless one of the wealthiest families of their time, and indeed in later centuries rose into prominence as the family which held the wealthiest estate in all continental Europe, reaching prominence beyond the borders of Zubrowka. 

Among their many treasures were various original works of art by many of the world's most talented hands throughout the ages: Klimt, Van Gogh, Monet... but the crowning jewel of the Desgoffe-und-Taxis art collection was undoubtedly an enchanting old relic of insurmountable value, acquired through means so obscure not even the contemporary Desgoffe-und-Taxis clan was exactly sure of how it came to be in their family's possession. 

The crowning jewel was, of course, the 17th century masterpiece known as Boy With Apple, painted in the most exquisite hand by Johannes van Hoytl the Younger in 1613. The Renaissance-era genius is subsequently renown for his attention to detail in the form of master application of pigment in light and shading, which has become his signature, as well as his expert texture work with velvety tones. The painting in question, Boy With Apple, features all the infamous van Hoytl light and texture work, and is also believed to be one of the last paintings by the Renaissance artist to reside in private hands. 

In addition to extensively dealing with (and patronizing) the art world, however, the Desgoffe-und-Taxis were well-known to dabble in business ventures and politics. Indeed, with the proliferation of the modern press, they came to gain full ownership of Zubrowka's leading newspaper syndicate, the Trans-Alpine Yodel, and dealt with controlling the press via the slant of their publications—they could, in essence, launch or destroy anybody's career with one stroke of a typewriter's key, which made them an incredibly powerful behind-the-scenes influence. 

Furthermore, the central attraction in Zubrowka, a high-class hotel known as the Grand Budapest, was also amongst their assets. Here, they met in private with many politicians and arranged secret deals as a means of establishing professional (and mutually beneficial,) relationships and alliances with the most prominent political figures of the time. 

At the top of this fantastic powerhouse sat, until her recent (and somewhat untimely) death by strychnine poisoning in the small hours of the morning, the matriarch of the aristocratic Desgoffe-und-Taxis family, the dowager countess known as Celine Villeneuve Desgoffe-und-Taxis. Born of the union between Hector Vittorio Villeneuve and renown ballerina Maria Josefina Brecht, Mme. Celine D.u.T. underwent various hardships in early childhood, not the least of which was becoming an orphan at the age of six—and consequentially acquiring her father's vast Estate, which included several ancestral properties (such as the Zubrowkian mansion Schloß Lutz). 

The honourable Mme. Celine D.u.T. was, however, never a woman of sentiment, and was in many ways as shrewd and talented in the world of business and secret diplomatic relations as her many notable ancestors. She succeeded in keeping full control over her own inheritance (as well as assets gained in each of her three marriages) until the hour of her death, never extending a single klubek to her four children until after the ink dried on her death certificate, at which point the bulk of her entire fortune was passed onto her only son, Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis, with special allowances being provided for the care of her three daughters, Marguerite, Leticia, and Carolina Desgoffe-und-Taxis. 

The future of the Desgoffe-und-Taxis family fortune is currently unknown, as all four children have remained unwed and currently possess no progeny to lay claim to the Estate upon their passing. The pressure of producing an heir currently befalls solely upon the family's prodigal son, Dmitri, as his elder sisters are well past childbearing age—and failure to engender such could lead to the extinction of what is arguably one of the most elite families in all Europe. 

One ultimately asks: indeed, what's in a name? 

What's in a name as internationally recognized as that of the Desgoffe-und-Taxis family, steeped in ancient history as one of the oldest aristocratic families in all continental Europe, and wielding as much power in five syllables as many sovereign nations, is an endless power play ballet as majestic as it is callous, with the only binding ties existing within the family's sphere of existence being those of business, legalities, and political relations.


	2. Part Two: Family: Zero (A Portrait of the Count as a Young Boy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glimpses into Dmitri's birth and early childhood, along with that of his three sisters, Marguerite, Laetizia, and Carolina. Additionally, we also observe the dynamic of Mme. Celine Desgoffe-und-Taxis' character and private life, as well as the family relationships of the Desgoffe-und-Taxis altogehter. 
> 
> This chapter predominantly deals in the universe of memory, so dialogue doesn't feature very strongly in it. That will be the stuff of subsequent chapters. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy!

The Desgoffe-und-Taxis, despite being one of the most illustrious families in all of Zubrowka, remained for the most part a highly reclusive clan. Mme. Celine D.u.T., the family's strong-willed matriarch, was not the kind of woman who humoured idle company, nor was she fond of squandering her money on trifles such as casual gatherings. Her entire life had been dedicated to the accumulation of wealth—perhaps a psychological conundrum derived from being orphaned at a young age, she felt as though money was the only true form of security in this world. As a result, all three of her marriages (the first being to the father of her four children, who left her a dowager when he finally succumbed to the Prussian Flu) had ended in either bereavement or amicable separation, with a portion (or the entirety, in the case of the deceased) of the former husbands' assets transposing ownership. 

As a mother, she was extremely frugal despite her superior wealth, successfully managing to keep the entirety of her fortune in her personal possession until the hour of her death. Mme. D.u.T. was infamous amongst the remainder of the family (as well as certain outsiders who had dealings with the Desgoffe-und-Taxis) for having a firm hand in both her professional and personal affairs, as her children could best attest—it was not uncommon discipline to be at the receiving end of a pine switch for even the slightest transgression in Mme. Celine's household. 

****

It was into this world that on the 22nd of November, 1891, in the hour of the rising sun, our young Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis was born. He was to be the fourth addition to the Desgoffe-und-Taxis home, which already enjoyed the giggling echoes and pitter-patter paces of three elder girls named Marguerite, Laetizia, and Carolina (ages 12, 10, and 8, respectively) within its spacious halls. 

As his elder sisters, Dmitri was born from the union of Mme. Celine Villeneuve and her (first) husband, Count Friedrich Desgoffe-und-Taxis. He was, however, the only son the two would produce (the Count falling ill not much later)—henceforth, the expected heir of the family fortune. 

Dmitri's birth came as an auspicious event to Mme. Celine Villeneuve, as the marital pressure to produce a male heir to the vast family Estate dissipated (she would have been content to split the Estate between Marguerite, Laetizia, and Carolina, but Count Friedrich insisted upon the existence of a proper male heir). As it was, he was her ticket to fulfilling the bulk of her marital duties (truly, only to extend the family lineage by producing a son to carry the bloodline and family name into subsequent generations), after which she felt entitled to pursue her own personal pleasures (she had always been somewhat untamed, engaging in dangerous liaisons with men inferior to herself in both social class and age). 

Madame's emancipation from her humdrum life of wifely duties fast approached with each ailing breath the languid Count Friedrich took. As his disease progressed, he became increasingly dependent upon the care of others, rapidly degenerating and becoming bedridden—so weakened he could no longer independently consume his meals and required assistance in maneuvering his silverware. 

The natural candidate for this true labour of love would, of course, be his very own Mme. Celine, but as it happens, she took advantage of the circumstances to advance her own vitality, enmeshing, with painted lips and ruddy-cheeked, against the nubile bodies of various young men as her husband withered on what would likely be his deathbed. 

It was, instead, a humble French maid who was hired for the task (in addition to also caring for the Desgoffe-und-Taxis children—her original post). Blonde and possessing a plain if yet beautiful young face, Amélie took on the role of both wife and mother (with none of the prestige, of course), caring for the frail patriarch of the family as well as looking after his four young children: the pre-adolescent elder sisters and the small infant Dmitri. 

*****

Count Friedrich Desgoffe-und-Taxis was to leave this world on the small hours of the twilight, unperturbed and without hesitation, after many months of torment at the hands of the Prussian Flu. He was buried a short time after the discovery of his lifeless body, in a private ceremony occurring immediately after the official reading of the Will (in which, being a good husband until the end, he left everything to Mme. Celine D.u.T. with a few minor allowances for his four children). 

The years immediately following the death of Count Friedrich D.u.T. were, for the most part, uneventful. Mme. Celine D.u.T. publicly grieved for the appropriate amount of time before taking on a second husband—some pompous, highly decorated military officer of aristocratic lineage with a Walrus mustache. 

Shortly thereafter, the stranger in the Desgoffe-und-Taxis home convinced Mme. Celine to ship her youngest child (the brat, as he called him) off to boarding school under the guise of providing him with a “good” education. 

She agreed, wanting to please her new husband as well as cut back on household staff expenses, and in the year 1897, young Dmitri was sent away to complete his first year of boarding school at the age of six. 

He did not return home, save briefly for the summer, where his days were superficially spent within the solitary confines of his small bedroom—but truly, with his somewhat overdeveloped nose eternally buried in some book. 

As much as he loathed boarding school with its strict discipline and emphasis on conformity, he could not say he exactly looked forward to returning to Schloß Lutz in the summer, either. It was, as everybody knew, an impressively beautiful castle soaked in centuries of European history, as some would call it, “an enchanting old ruin.” 

But a gilded cage is nonetheless a cage, he thought every time he gazed upon its cold-iron confines. 

The only ray of sun which managed to gleam briefly past the jet-black iron bars into the isolated sphere of Dmitri's young existence was truly the only mother figure he had ever known: the maidservant Amélie, who still worked at Schloß Lutz. 

She weaved the patchwork quilt inside his mind which consisted of the only fond memories of his early childhood at Schloß Lutz—the times she'd sit at his bedside and read to him when he was ill as he consumed warm milk and sugar cookies, the times she'd sing him lullabies so he could resume sleep after awakening from some nightmare, the times she taught him how to read and how to draw, among many others of less prominence. 

Other than his fleeting reconnection with the cherished Amélie, life at Schloß Lutz granted no comfort whatsoever. Everything was as it always had been, as if he had never left—he was evidently neither noticed nor missed, as the world inside the home kept turning at its usual pace with no special gesture to mark his arrival or his absence. 

His three sisters were (as always) seated at a small rounded table playing a game of cards with each other, existing as three distinct parts of the same universe to the soundtrack of girlish giggles and hushed-tone gossiping. Dmitri, when he was younger and didn't know better, would always ask if he could join and play a game of cards—the usual reply was “no,” unless one of the three sisters fell ill, in which case he would be grudgingly taken in for the night as the token substitute he was.

It was difficult for a younger Dmitri to understand why his elder sisters had always treated him with such distance—he was unaware of the politics which rule the lives of the elder aristocracy, of which Marguerite, Laetizia, and Carolina were, as adolescent girls, already very much a part. The three sisters knew their lot in life was restricted to finding a man of wealth and good aristocratic lineage to marry and bear children for now that the Desgoffe-und-Taxis clan was in possession of its long-awaited male heir. 

While they did not precisely mistreat him, the elder sisters did very little to veil their resentment toward the unwanted little presence forever asking for a place at the table. Thus, they mostly kept to themselves, confided in themselves, and lived only for themselves—at least until the time each found her own suitor, after which point their lives were presumably destined to take on a similar turn to that of their mother. 

*****

His own mother was considerably worse—she would send for a butler to arrange young Dmitri's transportation back to Schloß Lutz, never being present herself for his arrival (presumably out with her second husband or cheating on him with some youthful plebeian). On the days he did actually manage to catch a glimpse of her, she was sharp and cold in her eventual greeting, never bearing to kiss him hello, much less tend to him in any manner a good mother would. 

She did not conduct herself much differently when it came to her other three children—she was just as frigid in demeanour when addressing them as she was with young Dmitri. 

Indeed, the three sisters still remained in the Lutz mansion only because their mother was unwilling to put forth a sizable dowry to attract good suitors for their hand in marriage.

It is believed that, in addition to complying with her second husband's wishes, Mme. Celine was icy to her brood because she loathed being reminded of her deceased first husband—and his four descendants were all walking, living, breathing reminders of “all the time she wasted” in the youthful years of her first marriage.

*****

The subsequent summers were equally devoid of noteworthy events, with most of their days consisting of Dmitri spending time alone in his room, usually either drawing with fine pencils or reading a book. He had always favoured art and looked to it as a desirable pastime for when he felt too agitated to focus on reading. His love for drawing especially had been fostered by the ever-attentive Amélie, who was always bringing him drawing paper and sketch books from the town art supply store.

Whenever he succeeded in creating a work which he considered beautiful, he would diligently present it to Amélie, and the kind young maid would placate it at the corner nearest her bed (which was decked with various artworks by Dmitri, both the ones she had received as presents and the ones he had, in prior years, attempted to gift to his mother—this latter group were rescued from the rubbish bin by Amélie).

*****

The turn of a new century brought along with it the promise of an exciting summer adventure during which the time Dmitri was allotted for summer holidays would not—as had been previously customary—be spent cooped up in old Schloß Lutz. 

This time, he would be traveling to Britain along with his three elder sisters and his caretaker, Amélie, and spending all of summer holiday abroad in a quaint English Estate owned by a relative of the Countess Celine Desgoffe-und-Taxis.

Mme. Celine would not herself be in attendance during these joyous summer holidays because she had “pending matters” to tend to, which translated to tying up the final agreements on her divorce with the Walrus-mustached officer whilst looking for more fertile prey on the side. 

Thus, it was in his Brighton estate that Mme. Celine's half-brother, Étienne Villeneuve, lodged the Desgoffe-und-Taxis children for the summer holiday. It was here that plainly pallid Marguerite, lumpy, pug-faced Laetizia, and sullen, wan-hued Carolina hoped to attract some suitors, possessing no assets aside from the family name. 

 

M. Villeneuve hosted various parties and events at his Brighton Estate throughout the summer to give the Desgoffe-und-Taxis girls a chance to mingle among the British elite and, if fortune graced them, finally come across a worthy suitor for their hand and name in marriage. 

Dmitri, being far too young (aged 10) to attend such socialite events, spent most of the holidays with the doting maidservant Amélie. During the daytime, they'd venture to some lovely British park or attend a fascinating museum art exhibit, after which, they would leisurely stroll along the sunny Brighton beach eating candied violets. 

In the evening, the two would practice drawing together, or would read each other a book from Dmitri's ever-expanding collection. At times, Amélie would be occupied with other household duties, such as stitching torn clothing or re-fastening buttons on blouses and slacks. It was then that Dmitri would practice his violin—an instrument he had been required to take up as part of his gentlemanly education as a young aristocrat. 

His playing, Amélie noted as she listened to the melody conjured from horse-hair strings by Dmitri's tiny hand, showed great artistic promise... but it had a subtle yet unmistakable air of sadness to it—a ruefulness far too great for a boy so small to know. 

*****

It was the morning of their last day of summer holiday in Brighton. Unsurprisingly, none of the three sisters had managed to find an eligible suitor for their hand in marriage—the strapping young lads encountered were either similarly penniless save for the faded prestige of an ancient name, or of far too low social ranking to suffice. 

Downcast, the three sisters (along with their young brother and servants) returned to Lutz, once again to deliver the news of yet another failed marriage venture to a mother who would not grant further dowry than the allotted amount left to each as “allowances” as per her deceased first husband's will—a handsome sum for solitary living and of supplement in matrimony, but a pitiful dowry indeed. 

Summer holiday would officially end for Dmitri a week after their return to Lutz, so he made the most use of his time with Amélie. They went out on picnics at the local park, ate elegant little pastries at gourmet bakeries, visited many libraries, and practiced their music together on rainy evenings in the family den—Dmitri, a serious violinist, and Amélie, simply jesting by playing along with the only instrument she had ever owned: a little steel triangle. 

*****

The day Dmitri was to return to boarding school had finally arrived, much to his dread. He had been unable to sleep the night prior, plagued by anxiety and sorrow at the thought of leaving Amélie and returning to a dreary relic of a school he never once asked to attend. 

Nonetheless, his bags were packed and labeled in preparation for his train ride to the school. He made use of the few hours of unmolested freedom he still had and spent them with Amélie, drinking hot red rooibos tea accompanied with warm lemon-lavender scones (which she had prepared by hand—Amélie was an exceptionally talented baker). 

The day passed by quite swiftly, its hours spent amidst hushed-tone readings of suspense penny dreadfuls (favourites of Amélie) and the perpetual shuffling of cards for a game of three in the room adjacent.

As the hour of Dmitri's departure drew closer, Mme. Celine sent for her personal butler, a middle-aged man with a flimsy mustache named Gaston, to summon the rest of the family into the sitting room. 

Once all four of her children were gathered and present at the living room, Mme. Celine revealed the reason for the assembly: mincing no words, in the true lively nature of a woman of her character, she announced her engagement to one Comte Vimeur, a French national who had emigrated from his country of birth and taken up residence in Lutz.

The Comte, a statuesque middle-aged man with wild ringlets of fine blonde hair and a seemingly permanent sneer, clutched Mme. Celine's hand and formally introduced himself to her offspring. 

Mme. Celine thenceforward divulged their plans to marry at summer's end, a week after Dmitri returned to boarding school, and once again called for her personal butler. 

Gaston the butler hurriedly arrived and placed himself at Mme. Celine's side. The latter whispered for him to fetch Dmitri's transport to the train station, and absentmindedly dismissed him. 

A few moments later, Gaston returned along with the Desgoffe-und-Taxis family's chauffeur--a small, grey-haired fellow named Maurice. 

Once the pair arrived, Dmitri was signaled to gather his belongings and say his farewells to the family he would be leaving behind. He briefly hugged each of his three sisters (and they unenthusiastically returned the favour) before turning to his mother in an attempt to do the same. 

Mme. Celine rebuffed him, holding steadfastly to her fiance's burly hand, and Dmitri sullenly retreated to gather his things and go. 

As he turned to look back at the family of Schloß Lutz a final time, Amélie hurriedly descended down the staircase with a large wicker basket in tow. She turned to Dmitri and nervously placed the basket in his little hands, explaining its contents were to be considered early birthday presents. 

Dmitri's watery grey eyes glanced up to meet the pale azure of Amélie's as he buried his small tear-strained face in her worn beige apron for a final embrace. 

There he remained thus for a moment, absolutely implacable, before declaring, with rare emotion in his voice, that he did not wish to return to the boarding school. 

Panicking, Dmitri tried his best to hold on to Amélie's apron , clutching at the gentle fabric with utter desperation. 

His struggle was to no avail, however, as he was effortlessly removed from Amélie's side by Mme. Celine's would-be husband, who dragged the small boy, kicking and screaming, to the back seat of the car which had been prepared for his departure.

Dmitri's belongings were gathered by Gaston and fasted to the exterior of the vehicle with a thick rope, save for the wicker hand-basket, which the butler dutifully returned to its intended recipient.

At Mme. Celine's signal, the chauffeur commenced to drive, young Dmitri tearfully looking back at the ever-diminishing faces of Amélie and his three sisters, until each became entirely out of view, as, did Schloß Lutz. 

Resigning to his bitter lot in life, Dmitri ceased his attempts to look at the outside world and instead redirected his attention to the comely wicker basket Amélie had hurriedly shoved in his hand. 

He opened its contents, warm tears rolling down his coral cheeks, and saw that she had written him a letter. Alongside this letter were a bag of French bon-bons, a small English-language book by one Beatrix Potter called The Tale of Peter Rabbit, an instantly recognizable hand-made stuffed toy of the same rabbit (no doubt, sewn by Amélie), and a tin box of candied violets. 

Dmitri opened the letter, which was itself tucked inside a pale blue envelope and sealed with a delicate pink wax with the imprint of a butterfly bearing her initials: AM. 

Upon opening, the letter read: 

Dearest Dmitri, 

On the eve of your return to boarding school, I have assembled these humble gifts for you. It is my hope that they will be of some aid or comfort to you as you continue your studies. Work hard and excel. You are a brilliant little man who holds such promise. 

All my love,  
Amélie, at Schloß Lutz

Dmitri carefully folded the letter and tucked it back into its envelope, clutching it close to his heart as he tearfully observed the dying embers of the sunset being replaced by the mantle of a dark and starry night.


	3. Part Three: Juncture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although the events in question are set in the past, we receive more detail about Dmitri's early life than in previous chapters (short: there is dialogue). 
> 
> This chapter predominantly deals with a young adult Dmitri as he returns to the family Estate, and the events which ensue upon his completion of boarding school.

Part Three: Juncture

In the year 1910, Dmitri officially finished the last of his schooling at the Nebelsbad Boarding School for Boys, receiving high marks and much recognition for his academic excellence, with emphasis on his proficiency in literature, music, and the arts. It was with these honours that he returned to Lutz, on a day-long train ride boarding first class. 

In the interim, he leafed through some old sketches he had produced during his years in boarding school—they mostly concerned depictions of characters from various works of literature he enjoyed as conjured by his imagination as well as fine-line portraits of flowers (tulips, mainly), with the occasional posing subject. 

When he tired of reviewing his part work, he neatly put away his sketchbook and quietly sat in his train car, hands folded on his lap, his grey eyes vacantly peering out the window, his mind entirely somewhere else. 

As the train chugged on, Dmitri thought of how much he truly did not wish to return to Schloß Lutz—no, not as it was now. Several years had passed since the dishonourable dismissal of his only comfort in that godforsaken place, the lovely Amélie. It was his mother's doing, of course, very shortly after that fateful incident on the eve of his mother's third (and, needless to say, brief) marriage to the contemptible Comte Vimeur. 

Every summer since then had been filled with agony and loneliness, leaving Dmitri with no other alternative but to seek permanent refuge where he had always found it: within the yellowed, dusty pages of old volumes and the faded ink lines of forgotten sketchbooks. 

Dmitri slowly closed his eyes, imagining himself being somewhere else—going somewhere else, never to return, his reverie coming to a (literally) screeching halt with the train's sudden stopping. 

They had reached the Lutz Bahnhof.

He gathered his bags and disembarked the train. A short while later, he was once again met by Gaston the butler (now on the cusp of old age), who strapped his luggage on the family car as Dmitri reluctantly boarded the passenger's seat. 

They reached Schloß Lutz in half an hour's time, greeted by no one. Gaston helped Dmitri transport his bags to his room, taking leave immediately after. 

****

The dancing rays of summer sun, the fluttering brown leaves of autumn, and the delicately flurrying snowflakes of winter all passed by as Dmitri remained incarcerated at Schloß Lutz. 

He had given himself exactly a year's time to ponder upon which direction he desired his life to take, finally deciding on entering some sort of university to pursue a career in literature studies (with preferable emphasis on 19th century French and Russian literature, which were his favourites). 

Dmitri knew, however, that for this to occur, he would need to tap into the funds his father provisioned for him as inheritance in his will—it was exceedingly obvious he could not count on his mother, after all. 

Nonetheless, Mme. Celine was not to be left entirely out of this affair. Dmitri would need to obtain his funds from her, as she was left with everything having to do with the execution of his father's will by the absence of an heir (or heiress) of adult age at the time of his father's passing. 

Thus, Dmitri approached his mother one decisive day, after many weeks of mental preparation via imagined conversations and envisioned outcomes. He could not see how she could refuse him his rightful due as per his father's wishes, not being the author of the will herself, and was confident all would turn out in his favour. 

Armed with this knowledge, he knocked on the foreboding cherry wood door which led to Mme. Celine's bedchamber. 

A few moments later, Mme. Celine appeared, opening the door. 

“What is it?” Mme. Celine impatiently inquired, looking inconvenienced. 

“I desire to have a word with you, mother,” Dmitri minced no words, stating his business without hesitation. 

“And what brings about this pleasure?” Mme. Celine sarcastically retorted.

Dmitri looked away, visibly uncomfortable. He had never felt at ease when conversing with his mother. 

“I think we both know what this is about, mother,” Dmitri finally continued. “It's been a year since my schooling ended, I am sure you know...”

“Yes, and?” Mme. coldly spat back. 

“Well, surely, you can imagine I do not plan to spend the remainder of my life here at Schloß Lutz...” Dmitri answered.

“I should hope not,” Mme. Celine snorted. 

“Right, well, since that is not my intention, I've come here to ask you for my share of my father's funds so that I may attend university,” Dmitri stated.

“I beg your pardon?” Mme. Celine incredulously asked.

“My inheritance,” Dmitri clarified. “I need it, so that I may attend university and start a career in literary studies, mother.”

“What inheritance?” Mme. Celine retorted.

“The allowance my father stated on his will,” Dmitri said. “A part of it was meant for me.”

“Oh, that?” Mme. Celine sneered. “You have no inheritance--how do you think I paid for your boarding school all these years?” 

Dmitri said nothing, being too shocked to formulate any sort of answer.

“Yes, it's gone, that's where it went, you're welcome,” Mme. Celine frigidly snapped.

“You mean to tell me you used the inheritance money my father left me without my permission to coop me up in that infernal boarding school all these years?!” Dmitri, finally collecting himself, furiously bellowed.

“That's correct, boarding school does not pay for itself,” Mme. Celine replied.

“So, you threw me away, and kicked me off to that sulphurous school using MY money..... just so you could live out a pointless five year marriage with that scoundrel Comte Vimeur?! Is that it?!” Dmitri frantically clamored, beads of cold sweat dripping from his jet-black hair. 

“You foolish child,” Mme. Celine scoffed, her icy blue gaze penetrating her son's melancholy one. “How could someone such as you possibly understand that your childhood had to be sacrificed for something greater...”

“Something greater?!?” Dmitri countered through clenched teeth, barely able to contain his ire. “How is a failed marriage to one abhorrent abomination of a man 'something greater'?!”

“Such fierce intelligence, Dmitri, and yet you are ever the fool, as always... such a disappointment of a son,” Mme. Celine casually continued. “Where you see, as you put it, a 'pointless five year marriage,' I see the acquisition of the greatest newspaper syndicate as the fruit of five years' labour...”

Aghast, Dmitri could do nothing save for stare in disgust at his monstrous mother.

“Yes, you look at me now with such horror in your eyes, but I do not expect forgiveness from you, nor do I expect your understanding,” Mme. Celine asserted, finalizing the conversation by shutting the door. 

*****

Three months' time passed since the fruitless conversation with Mme. Celine, and Dmitri was none the better—he had, as was his custom when emotionally unwell, taken to living out a purely nocturnal existence, emerging from the cold confines of his room only to pilfer the occasional meal from the kitchen (the head cook, sympathetic as she was to him, always left behind at least a plate of soup and some slices of veal for him). 

Despite the devastating news of his vanishing inheritance, Dmitri was still counting on eventually attending university—he was not one to relinquish a dream so easily, however deadened his spirits had become as of late. 

He filled his days in figurative limbo with further reading, figuring it could only supplement his education for when the moment came to finally make the transition to university. His father had left behind a marvelous collection of books inside the old family library—an untapped resource among the remainder of the Desgoffe-und-Taxis family, but one Dmitri eagerly imbibed since his earliest days at Schloß Lutz. 

So it was that Dmitri found himself one crisp autumn afternoon, perusing the seemingly infinite shelves of the family library for some new volume to adopt as pleasure reading. After some browsing, he finally settled for a visibly worn leather-bound novel with shining saffron letters revealing its title as Notre-Dame de Paris, by one of France's most prolific 19th century writers, Victor Hugo. 

He took to the velvety red chair at the corner of the library (once his father's preferred lounging place) with book in tow, and commenced his daily afternoon reading, enjoying uninterrupted quietude until a sudden knocking at the library's main door announced the arrival of an extraneous presence.

Dmitri cast his book aside and emerged from his chair, answering the door. 

At the other side of the heavy oak wood door was none other than Mme. Celine. Slightly taken aback, Dmitri moved aside, wondering what his mother could possibly want.

“Afternoon, mother,” Dmitri mumbled, not quite knowing what else to say. 

“Save the formalities for someone else, Dmitri,” Mme. Celine replied, entering the room and taking a seat at the same red velvet chair Dmitri had occupied just minutes prior. 

Dmitri said nothing, but looked slightly agitated.

“You are probably wondering what the reason for this visit is, aren't you?” Mme. Celine gingerly stated, taking hold of Dmitri's book and giving it a disinterested glance before throwing it back on the table.

Dmitri looked away, bowing his head slightly. 

“You will remember, a short while ago, you intruded upon my presence inquiring about your inheritance...” Mme. Celine elaborated, eyeing the pallid crème varnish coating her long nails. 

“I remember,” Dmitri replied, trying his best to hide his indignation at being reminded of the incident.

“Yes, well, as you know, those funds are gone,” Mme. Celine reminded him. “However...”

“However?” Dmitri repeated, giving his mother a quizzical look. 

“However, there is a way for you to get what you want, after all,” Mme. Celine continued, hoping to pique her son's interest. 

“There is?” Dmitri asked. 

“Yes,” Mme. Celine affirmed. “As you know, you are now an adult, which means... as someone of our noble lineage, you hold a certain amount of appeal as a potential suitor.” 

“A... suitor?” Dmitri was clearly not following his mother's train of thought.

“A suitor,” Mme. Celine went on. “You need not worry yourself over the minor details, that will be at my discretion, but I have arranged a meeting for tomorrow evening with one Carlotta Eniaudi, the eldest daughter of an Italian wine tycoon—and your possible ticket to further the education you seem to place so much importance on.” 

“A meeting?!” Dmitri exclaimed, looking frazzled. “Why wouldn't you consult me before doing this?!” 

“I need not consult you, you silly child...” Mme. Celine laughed. “It is your obligation as a nobleman and as the sole male heir of this family to continue the lineage—the arrangement need neither your permission nor approval, you will do exactly as you are told, exactly as your father and I did at your age.” 

Giving her son no chance at uttering a reply of any form, Mme. Celine abandoned her seat, saying nothing further before retiring from the library. 

Dmitri's heart sunk as he resumed his seat on the red velvet chair, his grey eyes wide with stupefaction as he cast a thousand-mile stare in the general direction of the library's centerpiece portrait: a Renaissance-era painting by Johannes van Hoytl the Younger titled Boy With Apple.

*****

The very next day, Mme. Celine awoke as dawn broke upon the horizon, anxiously arranging preparations for the evening's meeting with Carlotta Eniaudi and her famous father. She planned on having a plump goose cooked for the occasion, accompanied by a selection of cakes and the finest wine from the family's cellar. 

It was unusual for Mme. Celine to be so elaborate in her hospitality towards house guests (she truly did not care for such niceties), but she saw it as an investment—after all, Dmitri's marriage to this Carlotta would cement relations between the Desgoffe-und-Taxis and the Eniaudis, combining their capitals (and thereby granting her a right to a piece of the profits, as the groom's mother). 

She had learned not to scrimp from prior errors, namely the disastrous attempts to marry Marguerite off to the son of some slightly notorious British furrier whose business had some holdings in North America. A combination of Marguerite's pedestrian looks and Mme. Celine's reluctance to raise her dowry had resulted in the son pursuing an engagement (and later, marriage) with the youngest daughter of some Zubrowkian banker instead. 

Mme. Celine was determined not to make the same mistake with Dmitri, chalking up the preceding failure with her eldest daughter to inexperience and lack of insight on her part. This time, however, she had the advantage of holding the true golden goose: a son with a desirable pedigree and, some would say, acceptable aesthetic. In other words, a son who was highly marketable in every way, and who would be her ticket to pursuing further riches now that she was a bit long in years to do so on her own.

*****

The hour of the two families' fated meeting finally came to pass. Mme. Celine, dressed in her finest furs and pearls, was perched upon the window overlooking her Estate like a hawk scanning the grounds for approaching prey. 

Dmitri, on the other hand, awkwardly occupied the furthermost corner of the room like a terrified rodent dreading the hour of its inevitable consumption by some gluttonous house cat. 

Fifteen minutes later, the awaited Eniaudi family made their debut appearance upon the Desgoffe-und-Taxis Estate. The patriarch, a little fat olive-skinned man with wavy grey hair and a bristly moustache named Giuseppe Eniaudi, introduced himself to the Desgoffe-und-Taxis matriarch, planting a moist kiss on her pasty hand with his fat lips. 

Mr. Eniaudi proceeded to present his daughter: a straw-haired wench with an unsightly mole upon her inflated cheeks and bovine eyes named Carlotta, who was as short and stout as her father (albeit with a thinner moustache). 

Dmitri tried his best to hide his revulsion as his mother introduced them in turn.

After this blundering prelude, the ominous evening which would haunt Dmitri's nightmares for many years unfolded.

The first course of terror consisted of a tense family dinner, during which Dmitri hardly touched his plate, and Carlotta proceeded to consume enough food to account for several small countries, gorging her fat face on various cakes like a tick sucking blood from a dying deer.

When the horrid meal was over, both families headed to the living room, where Mr. Eniaudi took a seat at the Desgoffe-und-Taxis family piano (with Mme's approval, of course), his plumpish daughter standing a few feet away. 

Mme. Celine, with customary glass of wine in hand, elected a nearby chair as her lounging spot for the moment, and ordered Dmitri to occupy the adjacent chair, which he hesitantly did. 

Mr. Eniaudi clumsily slapped the ivory keys of the olden piano in a rather painful attempt to play the musical scales. Carlotta followed suit by providing nails-on-chalkboard vocals to the already unfortunate piano accompaniment, her screeching voice reaching a ghastly crescendo by shattering the glass in Mme. Celine's hand. 

Dmitri merely gawked at the crystalline shards of glass which fell like confetti upon the floor, wishing for the diabolical evening to swiftly come to a close. 

Three hours and forty-five torturous minutes later, Dmitri's wish came true, and the Eniaudis made their eagerly anticipated disappearance. 

The Desgoffe-und-Taxis family servants hurriedly descended upon the dining room table, gathering mountains of dirty dishes and leftover food from the ill-fated dinner. 

Dmitri remained silent, not quite believing the events taking place at his home that night. 

“I think that went well, don't you?” Mme. Celine quipped, approaching her son. 

Her son simply looked away, instinctively distancing himself from his mother. 

“What now, wouldn't you say that went swimmingly?” Mme. Celine continued, ignoring her son's apparent discomfort. 

“Mother, I'm not going to marry that cow,” Dmitri left no room for misinterpretation, intending to dash any illusions his mother may have held prior to his final statement. 

He crossed his arms and slowly walked away before his mother had ample time to register his response. Once she had, however, she swiftly strode in his direction, her blue eyes alight with fury. 

“What do you mean you won't marry her?” Mme. Celine retorted, placing herself in her son's path. “As if you had a choice...” 

“Evidently, I have a choice, and I said I will not marry that worthless fat cow,” Dmitri repeated himself, not budging his position. 

“You insolent little brat!” His mother bellowed, shaking with fury at being defied in such a bold manner. 

“Listen, mother, I've tried my best to make my peace with you in some way,” Dmitri continued, completely ignoring his mother. “I've attempted to stay out of your way for as long as I've been alive, letting you ship me off to boarding school at your leisure so you could pursue your indiscretions in peace, I've allowed all sorts of injustices to be performed upon my person for your benefit...” 

“And what is your point?” The matriarch spat back arrogantly. “I am your mother, I can do with you as I damn well please, Dmitri!” 

“My point is I will allow your abuse to continue no further, mother” Dmitri spoke slowly, dangerously, his normally melancholic grey eyes taking on a sinister glimmer. 

“What you allow or do not allow is of no consequence! I OWN THIS ESTATE! I am the one in whose name this entire family's fortune is, you have no choice but to do as I say or find your fortune elsewhere!” Mme. Celine retaliated with ferocity. 

“Then perhaps that is exactly what I will do!” Dmitri stomped off, recognizing his own disadvantaged position and settling the dispute by retiring. 

That decisive evening would be one which would remain in the memories of both the Desgoffe-und-Taxis matriarch and her only son until the end of each of their lives. 

Shortly after the bitter quarrel with his mother, Dmitri locked himself in his room, frenziedly opening the closet door and taking out several large suitcases. He stuffed as many of his clothes and valuable belongings as he could fit inside each of them, taking his most prized possessions (among which were notable items such as his father's solid gold pocket watch, as well as several bejeweled heirloom cuff links which had belonged to various now deceased members of the Desgoffe-und-Taxis family)as well as his most practical pieces of clothing (most notably, a black wool overcoat, a black wool cape, black leather dress shoes, black leather riding boots, and several suits—predominantly in a black, grey, and red colour palette, but some casual items as well as several pairs of pajamas and accompanying slippers and sleeping cap).

When he was done assembling his luggage, he took a seat as his desk and hurriedly penned a farewell letter—mostly addressed to his sisters, with whom he was on basic civil terms, before calling for Gaston, the family butler. He had Gaston summon Camille, the head maid of the vast Desgoffe-und-Taxis arsenal of servants (a comely French woman with a sweet young daughter named Clotilde, who had a certain amount of sympathy for the lone son). 

Gaston made his exit as soon as Camille made her appearance, presumably having more relevant business to tend to. Once Gaston was safely out of the way, Camille slipped Dmitri a few notes she had filched from Mme. Celine's boudoir (enough to pay for train fare plus several days' amenities at most nearby hotels) in a neatly sealed envelope and ushered him out of the family Estate and into a previously called-for taxi. 

Dmitri took one long last look at Schloß Lutz, the beautiful castle which had been his childhood torment for as long as he could remember. He sighed with relief as the cab sped away from the premises and the black iron gate bearing the infamous family crest gradually creaked shut, as if disowning him for good. 

During the long train ride out of Lutz (in which he rode third class—his escape had been so sudden there hadn't been sufficient time to book any other, but he didn't particularly mind), Dmitri sat largely in stupefaction, not quite believing he had taken the decisive step of leaving the family home and seeking his destiny on his own terms. 

It had seemed so simple—just one small step—and yet so staggering a step, like the first step taken into a virgin land. He thought of his sisters and felt a twinge of pain at the thought of leaving them there, knowing they were as unhappy as he was, but he didn't have much in the way of a choice. 

When the train ride came to an end, Dmitri swiftly exited the station, luggage in tow, and summoned yet another taxi. He was somewhat familiar with the area, it not being too far from Lutz (certainly not as far as Nebelsbad, where one of the Desgoffe-und-Taxis' most infamous possessions, a grand hotel known as the Grand Budapest, resided). Deciding he ought best to save his money, however, Dmitri opted to stay at a hotel of less prominence than the one his family lay claim to: a notably less impressive structure known as the Edelweiß Inn, which, while not being shabby, was a far cry from the cakey architecture complete with decadent amenities and overly dedicated service staff of Grand Hotels.

The Edelweiß Inn was a quaint little building, prevalently wooden and somewhat bohemian in its peculiar décor (elaborately painted, yet heavily furnished with antique furniture adorned with delicate doilies and white translucent lace curtains). The service staff were uniformed, but not in the severe immaculate manner of the staff frequenting grand hotels—they were decked in a professional yet inviting manner, appearing almost like long-forgotten relatives eagerly wishing to accommodate a distanced relation. 

Dmitri walked to the front desk of the distinct establishment, locating a literal silver service bell and promptly grasping its handle to ring it (thinking it somewhat odd, yet charming—most places he was accustomed to lodging at had tapping call bells). Moments later, a buxom blonde German woman (named Helga M., as her name tag read) appeared, amiably greeting the young man from the service side of the desk. 

“Good evening, welcome to the Edelweiß Inn, how may I assist you?” Helga quipped, pronouncing her w's as v's, in usual German manner. 

“Yes, good evening,” Dmitri greeted in turn. “I'd like a single room, please. Sorry it's such late notice.” 

“It's alright,” Helga smiled. “We usually do not book clients this late in the evening, but I will check if there is a room available for you—if so, it will be no problem at all.” 

The portly German woman reached for a book located at the right end of the front desk, which contained the signatures of the day's incoming and outgoing clients as well as the rooms they had occupied. Her pale green eyes browsed the long list, searching for single-room vacancies, stopping only after she spotted one such room. 

“You're in luck, we do happen to have exactly one vacant single room, on the second floor to your right—you will have to forgive us, we do not presently own an elevator, but there is a staircase which will lead you to the hallway where your room is at,” Helga elaborated. “Now, if I could just get your first and last name?” 

“Sure, it will be no problem,” Dmitri assured her, recognizing he'd have to compromise for slightly less than stellar accommodations given his present circumstance. “My name is Dmitri, Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis.” 

The old German woman's hand froze mid-sentence, her pen quivering at the mention of such a well-established name. 

“I beg your pardon?” Helga finally uttered, thinking perhaps she had misheard the raven-haired young man standing before her. 

“My name, it's Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis,” Dmitri repeated, reaching for his pocket and withdrawing his passport. “If you need proof of identity, I have this.”

The woman swiftly collected his passport, not quite believing her ears, and not quite grasping why a member of the wealthiest family in continental Europe would want to stay at her humble little inn.

It checked out, however. There it was, plain as day and clear for her to see, the passport of the prodigal son of the Desgoffe-und-Taxis family. Nobody would have ever believed it, she wouldn't have ever believed it, had she not witnessed it occurring right before her emerald eyes. 

“That will suffice, thank you very much,” she mustered to say, still clearly taken by the oddness of it all, and hastily returned his passport. 

She finished writing his name on the sign-in book, and asked for his signature as part of the closing transaction. 

Dmitri took the pen from Helga's shaking hand and nonchalantly signed his name in the client sign-in book, receiving the keys to his room (a tiny set of antique 18th century brass keys) shortly after. 

His room was, as the others in the tiny hotel, small but pleasantly decked with numerous quaint objects (porcelain eggs with gold-painted linings, antique porcelain plates with whimsy illustrations of 18th century aristocrats, and the odd Matryoshka doll on the bedside table next to a rather worn copy of The New Testament) and adorned with the same strange doilies which permeated reception on the floor below. 

Yawning slightly, Dmitri gathered his luggage and stacked it in the small walk-in closet adjacent to his bed, not bothering to unpack anything save for his velvet black pajamas, red slippers, and sleeping cap, rapidly shutting the door. He changed into his nightwear and folded his day clothes over a handsome cherry wood chair tucked into an equally lovely writing desk atop which stood, freshly as the day they were cut and gathered, a dozen lightly fragrant orange roses in a slim, intricately cut German glass vase. 

Night passed as Dmitri fell to Morpehus' spell, not stirring from sleep until around noon the next day. 

When he awoke, Dmitri hurriedly dressed and ate a brief breakfast consisting of some warm toast with apricot jam and two soft-boiled eggs with apple juice (he bitterly detested any other). Once he had finished his breakfast, he exited the little inn and went about his business in the small town of Kunstbruck. 

His first order of business was securing some funds for himself, as he had no employment to speak of and was obviously cut off from his family's monetary supply as a direct result of defying his mother's wishes. He did not need (or, frankly, desire) very much—merely enough to sustain him until he was able to settle and obtain employment somewhere (though he privately dreaded the hiring process, as he was sure his prominent name would be the cause of many surprised stares). 

Thus, it was a pawn shop young Dmitri was scouting out in his business order for the day. He intended to pawn (or outright sell, if possible) his father's pocket watch and the few cuff links and tie pins which had been passed down to him along the years (the ones which did not end up poised on the inflated chests or grubby hands of his mother's various lovers, anyway). Secretly, he did not wish to part with them—particularly his father's pocket watch, not that the two had ever been close, but it was one of the few tangible remains the deceased patriarch left behind for his brood. 

After about an hour's worth of shop-browsing, Dmitri finally found what he so candidly sought: the town's only pawn shop stood in the shadows of a street corner, its small door wedged between the intersecting sidewalks of two long, winding streets.

Clutching the valuables in his outer coat's pocket with one spidery, trembling hand, Dmitri entered the pawn shop ensuring he was seen by no one. He directed himself towards the front counter of the shop, where a meaty, balding man sweated over a thin notebook, feverishly scribbling upon it. 

“Excuse me, are you the owner of the shop?” Dmitri timidly asked, not quite knowing how to conduct himself in such a situation—his interactions with the world had been few and limited mostly to his own family, the staff in the Desgoffe-und-Taxis Estate, and his tutors and peers at the boarding school.

“That I am, what's your business today?” The sweltering man huffed, not caring sufficiently to cast a detailed look in Dmitri's direction and continuing to write on his notebook. 

Dmitri hesitantly withdrew the contents of his pockets, revealing the heirloom solid 18k gold pocket watch and the various cuff links and tie adornments it contained. 

“I was looking to perhaps pawn or possibly sell these,” Dmitri muttered, his slender hands uncontrollably shaking as he spoke. 

The store owner's steel grey eyes calculatingly scanned the contents which Dmitri had strewn upon his glass table, his fat jaw dropping slightly after eyeing the monogrammed gold pocket watch. 

“Is that?!” The man's eyes widened in disbelief, his porcine hand stretching to grasp the watch and examine it. “Could it be?!” 

“It once belonged to one Count Friedrich Maximilian Eugen Desgoffe-und-Taxis,” Dmitri casually remarked, in an effort to subtly confirm what he knew the store owner was thinking. 

“Remarkable, simply remarkable...” The store owner, still breathless, sighed. “How is it that you've come to have it in your possession, if you don't mind my asking?”

“I am.... a distant relation,” Dmitri wistfully remarked, his pale grey eyes becoming soft and watery. 

“I see,” the owner poised himself upon the desk, his greasy arms causing condensation to form upon the brittle glass. 

“I'd be looking to pawn it, ideally,” Dmitri haltingly uttered. 

“Pawn? Well, you may, but I am in truth more interested in purchasing it,” the beefy man greedily stated, pawing the pocket watch with his hairy, sweaty palms. 

“I simply can't make such an offer at this moment, I am afraid,” Dmitri struggled to say, looking away. 

The shop owner clearly did not grasp Dmitri's reason for the attachment to the watch, but anticipated it would not be easy to acquire, and agreed to have it pawned instead of bought. 

“Very well, but only because I am ever-grateful at having been presented with such a treasure, I will allow you, say, 300,000 Klubeks, for its presence,” the owner extended his first, and final, offer. 

Dmitri happily took the offer—it wasn't as if he had much choice in the matter, after all, but those circumstances needn't be disclosed. 

“Let's see what else ya got,” the owner inquired, motioning his hand in a forward gesture, after receiving the watch and dispensing 300,000 Klubeks in return. 

“Right,” Dmitri continued, figuring he would sell the remainder of his heirlooms to have solid rather than borrowed funds in case an emergency presented itself. 

He surrendered his collection of tie pins and cuff links, which were seriously not much—a few gold pieces, some speckled with jewels, others merely decorated with obscure symbols (none had the family coat of arms, however—his mother kept careful watch over all items which bore such a valued emblem). 

The sum total he received for the lot was also seriously not much—the entire assortment earned him about 15,000 Klubeks, which he gladly accepted. Dmitri was grateful for anything and everything he could get. He did not show it, but he was terrified of what the future would bring and was a proper nervous wreck as a result. 

The next day, Dmitri decided to rest to ease his nerves. He slept late the previous night and awoke in the early afternoon, lounging in his hotel room for most of the day (reading, mostly) and indulging himself with a trip to the opera (Wagner's Lohengrin, his favourite) in the evening. 

His third day in Kunstbruck was dedicated solely to finding more permanent residence than the Edelweiß Inn. He purchased newspapers every afternoon since his arrival, poring over the listings for rooms and apartments for rent with red pen in hand and circling places of interest to visit. 

It was on this day that he intended to visit the highlighted places, giving himself the later part of the morning until nightfall to achieve this task. 

The first few places he glanced at weren't very much, but he considered them all the same (deciding beggars can't be choosers, though they needn't be overly pathetic beggars, either). 

He settled for a small apartment in a comely, artsy street named Königstraße, and paid the sum of two months' rent (3,000 Klubeks) in cash to the landlady, a small old woman named Liesl, that very same day. 

Within a week, he moved entirely out of the Edelweiß Inn and into the Königstraße apartment, which he had furnished with a set of white mahogany pieces (a bed, a modest dining room table with a pair of matching chairs, a small bedside table, and a clothes drawer). 

*****

A single question danced around his mind during his rare free moments now that the mission to obtain a residence had been accomplished. It haunted the back of his mind whenever he turned the checker-inked page of a newspaper, or when he walked upon the cobbled sidewalks of a curving street. Whichever his activity, always and incessantly in his thoughts was Amélie. 

His mind wandered to the subject often, ever since her unfortunate dismissal from service at the Desgoffe-und-Taxis Estate. Back then, he had been too young to take it upon himself to seek her out, but now that he was finally free, the thought shifted to the forefront of his mind, its fire ever-burning. 

It was, in fact, because of Amélie that he was familiar with Kunstbruck in the first place. She had resided in the quiet little town shortly before she worked for the Desgoffe-und-Taxis, and had taken him and his sisters to visit the picturesque little place at many points during their time together. 

Thus it was that Dmitri devoted his hours to tracing her whereabouts, thinking perhaps she had come back to the town she loved upon her departure from Lutz. He sought her shadow wherever he went, focusing his search on the only relative of hers he had any knowledge of: a son named Donatien, who would have been of the cusp of adolescence at the time Dmitri last saw Amélie. 

He asked around, attempting to pin-point the possible whereabouts of the mysterious Donatien (Beauchene), thinking it would be much easier to trace him since he conceivably attended schooling of some sort in recent history. Dmitri stumbled upon his answer one sunny afternoon, after a felicitous visit to the local gymnasium, where he encountered answers in the form of a particularly helpful secretary named Ulrike. 

She confirmed Donatien had attended the school in the past year, having graduated from it in the spring. His last documented address was on record as: 

7 Straßburgstraße (Apartment 13)  
Kunstbruck, Zubrowka 

Overcome with joy, Dmitri hurriedly thanked the secretary and filched a stray piece of paper from the front desk. His hand trembled as the soft grey graphite of his pencil neatly scratched against the rough surface of the paper, nervously creasing the paper and pocketing it upon completion. 

The thick soles of his slickly tied black leather dress shoes clicked against the cobbled concrete as he rushed across several blocks, desperately seeking 7 Straßburgstraße. He made no interruptions, save for intermittently inquiring for the swiftest route to the desired address. 

He gasped for breath as soon as he reached 7 Straßburgstraße, thinking himself likely to collapse if he did not allow himself to recuperate. Rounding all the courage he could muster, he directed himself towards the fated building, raising a slim hand and knocking on the door. He could feel his stomach fluttering as if being torn by a swarm of lively butterflies, though he tried his best to mask his anxiety by clutching his hands together. 

At last, the dark, worn wooden door of Apartment 7 squeaked itself ajar to reveal a mousy-haired and lanky youth standing on the opposite side. 

“Good day, sir, may I help you?” The young man, clearly unfamiliar with his guest, politely greeted. 

“Yes, I'm Dmitri... Desgoffe-und-Taxis. I'm sorry to bother you so suddenly, but I need your help if you would not mind,” Dmitri clicked his heels together as a nervous gesture, bowing his head slightly. 

“Certainly,” Donatien replied. 

“You may recognize my name, though we've not met before, but many years ago your mother was working for my family at the Desgoffe-und-Taxis estate in Lutz,” Dmitri rapidly elaborated. 

“Yes, about a decade ago,” Donatien confirmed. 

Dmitri briefly looked away, uncertain of how to proceed. 

“Yes, well, I was wondering if I...” he stammered, attempting his best to continue. “If she would be willing to speak to me, I suppose.” 

The gangly juvenile said nothing, his eyes tinged with uncertainty, and merely looked to the stranger at the other side of the door. 

“Do you not know?” He finally spoke, a strain of confusion in his voice. “She died about three years ago—it was in the papers.” 

Dmitri fell silent.

“At least here, anyway...” Donatien apologetically added, remembering the young Count lived in Lutz. “She died of cyanide poisoning, and though the case remained open for many months thereafter, they never found her killer.”

A tense stillness filled the air as the two men simply gawked at each other, each not truly seeing the person before him. 

“I'm sorry,” the son uttered, seeing he had unwittingly delivered evidently unexpected news.

Dmitri did not hear him—he remained frozen in place, his grey eyes widened in disbelief, the remainder of his face devoid of any expression. 

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Donatien apprehensively asked, more out of civil obligation than anything else. 

“N-no...” Dmitri distractedly replied, his voice barely above a frail whisper, and with nothing further said, he retreated from the residence, leaving the orphaned son confoundedly standing at the door. 

*****

The news had not quite hit him upon their utterance, as things of great volume rarely make their impact exactly upon the moment of delivery. 

Dazed, he simply wandered the streets, entirely aimless and disconnected from the world. He was unsure of where to go, or what to do—or indeed whether he presently existed or was merely the tortured protagonist of a particularly tasteless nightmare. 

His footsteps felt unreal to him as he took one specter-like stride after the next, wishing above all else not to be at this exact moment, not to be at all. 

Donatien's words echoed in a heart-rending loop inside his head, the unveiled details of the circumstances behind Amélie's death spinning along with them, clouding his thoughts and leaving him with the sensation of being violently drowned.

All he wished for was some stasis in which to hide, to shelter himself from the truth and from life and the tormenting passage of time—time, which insolently continued counting its hours as if entirely unaware the world had come to a halting end for him just moments prior. 

He found his longed-for sanctuary in the dark corner of a seedy bar, whereupon he stumbled, abstractedly taking a seat. 

His experience with the world of drink was, prior to this point, nonexistent—save for some faint childhood memories of his father Friedrich and his ever-present bottle of scotch (the late Count had been a serious alcoholic, but Dmitri was far too young to properly register the memory). Knowing nothing else, he hollowly asked the bartender for a glass of scotch with no ice, exactly as his father took it. 

The barkeep returned with the requested drink, which Dmitri took with trembling hands and quickly gulped (much to the shock of his server). He ordered a second round, this time taking a bit more leisure in consuming the liquor. 

By the third glass, his head was swimming, unable to formulate a proper thought without quickly losing grasp of it, his body wholly numb to feeling. So detached was he, continuing to imbibe, heedless of the bitter stream of tears moistening his pallid cheeks. 

After his fourth and final drink, Dmitri clumsily left an unknown sum of money on the table and floundered from the establishment. The stench of cheap liquor permeated his presence as he struggled to walk, the lights illuminating the streets whirling like a starry sky before his glassy, intoxicated gaze. Passers-by ogled in his general direction as he stumbled against various objects (a street lamp, a mailbox, a closed newspaper stand), casting judgmental looks and complementary cutting remarks. 

An hour and a half later, he reached his apartment, searching for his keys and briefly panicking before successfully locating them on the inside pocket of his coat. He attempted to unlock his door, dropping his keys twice and succeeding the third time. Once he reached his dwelling, he waited no further before relinquishing consciousness and collapsing on the floor.


	4. Part Four: Dolorous Haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dmitri finds himself dealing with the news of his beloved caretaker's demise and the furthering pace of his young life.

A thick miasma of half-formed memories enveloped in an alcoholic blur accounted for the next few months of Dmitri's life in the tiny Kunstbruck apartment. There, he sequestered himself from the world, finding he could no longer cope with living in it. 

His small apartment was entirely unkempt, its furnishings littered with old newspapers (delivered, mostly, and almost never read) and the remnants of hastily put-together meals in manifold stages of decomposition. Crystal bottles of scotch were strewn upon the dusty floor, glittering like stars as wan candlelight shed itself upon them in the most desolate darkness of his dwelling.

The humbly sized bedspace had neither been tidied nor washed in the longest time, serving only to blanket Dmitri's half-conscious body every evening when he stumbled to take his place upon it like a corpse wrapped inside its coffin. 

Despite his youthful and naturally handsome looks, Dmitri had rapidly deteriorated—his eyes were dull and sunken, dark circles eternally etched upon their otherwise appealing almond frame. His cheeks, once coral blush, were now simply hollow, resembling the contours of a skeleton. He sincerely could not remember the hour or the day, much less when the last time he showered or shaved was—the majority of his time was spent peering into the increasing emptiness of a bottle, his mind floating in a figurative void. 

Dmitri's plans to seek employment or enroll in university had become awash in the flood of liquor perpetually stinging his slender throat. He simply spread himself weakly upon his tattered bed with his customary bottle in hand, thin labyrinths of veins reddening his lifeless eyes, and eradicated his self with each swig of the astringent poison. 

Being alive is such a sickening thing, he thought to himself amidst the alcohol-induced nausea, his frail body drenched in a cold sweat. 

He raised a bony, shaking hand and reached for an unwashed glass half-filled with lukewarm scotch, absentmindedly putting it to his mouth. 

Why do people go on living when everything simply dies in the end? An amber liquid rush drained itself from the muddy confines of the square-cut glass. Such a farce. 

The heavy glass shattered on the filthy ground as Dmitri relinquished his hold on it. 

There is no eternity... Dmitri's dilated, heavy-lidded eyes closed slowly as the evanescence of his consciousness drifted his surroundings further into oblivion. 

*****

The glare of the morning sun was an incredible pain for Dmitri's pale eyes to bear, thus he once again resigned himself to a purely nocturnal existence, as had been the case during his misery days at Schloß Lutz. 

He seldom vacated the house, however—the only thing which constantly prompted an outing was the pursuit of more liquor, whether purchased for in-home use, or (rarely, when even he grew weary of seeing the chaotic remnants of his life) for immediate ingestion in some shadowy ne'er-do-well pub. 

His coordination was usually poor at the beginning of these excursions (he had taken to carrying a cheap silver drinking flask, forever filled with either scotch or vodka) and nonexistent by the end of the evening, where only by god's good grace he slipped almost unscathed into the den of despair he called a home. 

Sometimes, whilst in the midst of heavy bouts of drinking, he would suffer from incredible pangs of loneliness, which would draw him from his dwelling and out into the street (flask in hand, somehow). He always found himself wandering to the same place on these occasions—the outskirts of a modest little home with a single inhabitant: a blonde young girl (about 21 years old) whose name he did not know, but whom he had followed home on several occasions (in distinct stages of intoxication). 

His attraction to her was as absolute as it was easily traced—the blonde was an almost perfect copy of Amélie as he remembered her, her skin soft and white as porcelain, her hair eternally tied in a braid or a bun. 

The only exception was that they did not share a vocation—the mystery girl worked at a charming little café which served terrible coffee and little sandwiches. 

Dmitri would tail her as she made her way to work and back, the ruffled blue skirts of her uniform caressing her slender thighs like ocean waves upon pale sand, heavily contrasting with his own flowing coal-black overcoat, which gave him an almost crow-like appearance as he stalked, deliberately placing himself several long paces behind her. 

On one such occasion, the anonymous girl was tiredly walking home after closing up the shop, the soft blue rays of bright moonlight granting exposure to her pale azure eyes as she trotted down the gravel sidewalk. Dmitri observed her from behind an iron lamppost on the adjacent street, his own frame obscured by the cast shadow of the streetlight's brilliance.

His rueful, glassy eyes were dazzled by her lively ones—the way the light of the moon delicately danced upon the opalescent blue of her iris reminded him of an aurora borealis. It was only in her reflection that he found a face to fill the void which had taken hold of his heart—he longed only to see himself inside her aquamarine, and to see her in his arms. 

He dared not unveil himself to such a muse in his present state of disgrace, however, so he satisfied himself simply by being near her, as was the case this night. 

She did not appear to see or hear him as she continued on her path, which was both a source of torment and relief to the drunkard Count von Lutz, who tried his best to keep up with her little strides with his slippery inebriated ones. 

The golden-haired nymph reached her place of residence after a short, brisk walk, and entered it. A few seconds later, a dull yellow light faintly illuminated the windows, indicating her presence to all. 

Dmitri withheld from immediately tracing her steps, choosing instead to remain where he stood (in a dark corner of her home's street) and emptying the rest of his flask before pocketing it and continuing his pursuit. 

He reached the small black gate which bordered her house, struggling to climb it. He staggered a bit, reaching for the sturdiest branch of a nearby florid tree on which to sit. Amidst the fragrant white flowers of the tree, he felt taller than the entire world, gazing at nothing save for the faint outline of his mysterious beloved behind the veil of a lace curtain as she went about some ordinary task—his entangled thoughts tinged with yearning, his spirit soaring via the flux of spirits streaming through his veins.

There he remained for the larger portion of the night, until the object of his affection shut out the lights, at which point he descended from his hiding tree. His equilibrium suffered: he made a faux pas by failing to take proper hold of a branch and falling to the ground. The fall was minor—it resulted in several shallow puce bruises along his right arm and leg (where he had landed), and nothing more.

His stomach was in a state of distress by the time he returned to his own home, due in large part to an ill-fated combination of nervousness, excessive alcoholic consumption, and insufficient food intake. The end result was Dmitri gracelessly regurgitating his small dinner upon the already grimy floor, whereupon he laid his head and paid the price of Dionysus' pleasures.

*****

The following morning, he was stirred into cognizance by the blinding golden glare of the sun's rays poking through his shabby, cobwebbed curtains. His ebony hair was matted by hardened bits of bile from the pool of vomit which served as his pillow the evening prior, and his bony hands trembled along with the rest of his brittle body as he lifted himself from the floor. 

He poured his customary morning glass of scotch as soon as he could reach the kitchen, not bothering to distinguish between clean and used dishes before doing so. With glass in hand, he walked to the front door of his apartment and fetched the morning edition of the newspaper (usually delivered at the doorstep), which he promptly tossed somewhere simply to get it out of his way. 

In the throes of a throbbing headache, Dmitri agonized on his dirty bed, rendered incapable of doing anything save for burying his face in his heavily stained pillow and let the hours slip until the dolorous haze finally passed. 

***** 

The days, weeks, and months blended into each other in similar fashion, entirely unaware of the formal telling of time, as Dmitri ricocheted further into the disarray of despondency. By now entirely skeletal and appearing to be at least ten years older than he truly was, Dmitri painted a sad portrait of human existence at such a tender and youthful age. 

His shadowing of the café waitress girl had not subsided—it had, in fact, increased in its frequency an intensity. 

He found that the longer he trailed her, the more he thirsted for her, the emptier he became—though he could feel his heart racing whenever he followed her, wishing only to be seen or acknowledged by her in some way, while at the same time desiring to evaporate into the obliteration of oblivion. Only the tarnished anguish of obsession set his heart ablaze these days, consuming his every rare coherent thought with the destruction of a roaring fire, fueled further by the explosive furor of inebriation. 

On one such day, the dark yearning inside his heart bubbled beyond even his own control, aided by another bout of heavy drinking. His mind was yet again drifting in the distant ocean of intoxication as he wandered the customary stone streets, awaiting the appearance of his Valkyrie. All else faded and withered into one disturbing blur at this time, his clumsy movements bearing no regard for the laws of traffic or pedestrian travel, as nothing beyond catching a glimpse of her pale lapis lazuli eyes even remotely mattered to him. 

At exactly ten o'clock in the evening, the anticipated young woman ascended from the glass doors of her place of employment, carefully locking its gates before stuffing the keys inside her purse and turning to walk home for the night. 

She took several paces before Dmitri set out to follow suit, his ears ringing with the dull buzz of insobriety, his mind racing despite its current state, simultaneously reaching the altitudes of euphoria and the abyss of despair by virtue of being in close proximity to his object of desire. 

He took no notice of the various people glancing contemptuously at his pale and visibly drunk form, struggling to keep up with his target as she leisurely strolled the yellow-lit streets.

It was only at a fateful intersection that the two previously unconnected lives came upon collision, as the mystery blonde paused her steps in careful apprehension of a speeding car. Dmitri had not anticipated this move on her part, which caused him to stumble against her. 

She whirled around, reasonably shocked at having been struck by a fellow pedestrian. Her bright blue eyes took in the disastrous sight of a notably disheveled Dmitri, to which she reacted with equal doses of fear and revulsion. 

“She looked at me...” Dmitri managed to mouth inaudibly, his glazed eyes peering vacantly into hers. 

The girl, entirely petrified, slowly walked on in an effort to pretend as though she had not seen the frightening man. She instinctively clutched her small brown purse and continued in the direction of her home, wanting nothing more than to get there quickly and take refuge behind its door.

Dmitri still chased her, trying to reach her whilst navigating the nebulous confines of the city streets both wandered in by pallid moonlight. Without truly noticing it, his steps became faster and more frenzied, his heart now pounding like a war drum with feverish passion, the voice within his mind screaming for her with high notes of desperation his actual voice could never muster to reach.

She looked at me.... 

He could not shake the thought from his mind as he paced on in pursuit of the poor creature, becoming entirely entrenched in his own fantastic visions of her. Her eyes, which sparkled like bluest water, the cushion of her rose-red lips, her bright blushed cheeks, her lustrous hair, golden and flowing like a wheat field rustled by a gentle breeze—he longed to touch every inch of her and be lost inside her gaze forever.

When he could stand it no longer, he impulsively reached forth, his spidery ghost-white hand enveloping her slender upper arm in a vice-grip, the soft wool of her tan overcoat reacting to his sudden touch by ejecting a crisp static shock which failed to stir him. 

“Look at me...” He managed to say.

The girl's jet pupils shrank with dismay as she let out a gasp, casting a horror-struck gaze at the man who dared touch her in such a way. 

She could smell the sickening stench of alcohol emanating from Dmitri's half-open lips as he simply looked into her eyes once more, his grip failing to loosen despite her clear discomfort. His every pore was dripping with cold sweat as he stood there, frozen in time and lost to the world. 

“Just look at me...” He continued.

“Let go of me!” The girl demanded, attempting to shake herself from his hold.

He failed to hear her, his mind adrift in the subtle glow of the moonlight which illuminated her azure iris, his hand completely unaware of her flailing movements. 

“Please, just look at me...” His voice became strained and rueful, barely above a whisper, as he pleaded further.

“I SAID LET GO OF ME, YOU CREEP!!!” She finally shouted, the palm of her hand loudly striking his sunken cheek as she slapped him. 

The vibrations of the hit echoed inside Dmitri's skull, tears filling his hollow eyes as he looked upon her disgusted face, his hand finally letting go of her arm to touch his cheek in the place where she had struck him. 

Taking advantage of the momentary stupefaction on the terrifying man's behalf, the girl hurriedly trotted home, fearing for her life as a result of the unfortunate encounter. She was long-gone by the time Dmitri drunkenly collected the remainder of his wits and noticed her absence. 

 

The look of pure fright upon his beloved's face remained engraved in Dmitri's mind for the remainder of the evening, a sight which pained his heart with sorrow. He could not stand to think of the way she had looked at him, the unveiled look of repugnance upon her beautiful features as she took in his presence—repugnance at he, the one who so loved her, even from the confines of her shadow.

He sought to drown her out the only way he knew—by drowning his own self out.

Thus it was that he attempted to forsake the evening's events, engulfing himself behind the shroud cast by his bitter elixir, as one scotch glass after the next arrived at his lonely table. 

When he reached ridiculous levels of intoxication, the staff ushered him out of the establishment and onto the cold unfeeling concrete of the deserted streets. 

As he languished on a murky puddle which had formed on the icy cement sidewalk, Dmitri wished for nothing more than to simply disappear and never again awaken to live out yet another tragic day in the wretched web of sorrow weaved by his affliction. 

The rush of alcohol he had rapidly imbibed was now beginning to take its expected toll, as his eyelids became heavier and his breathing more laboured and shallow. He could not gather sufficient strength to lift himself, not even to crawl. He could barely keep himself aware of his increasingly fading surroundings, as the scenery once again began to whirl around him as if in the beginning of a sinister dance. 

“I must be dying....” Dmitri thought to himself as his already feeble grasp on consciousness faltered even further, all within his vision becoming engulfed in an iridescent light.

Tears began to flood his grey eyes once more, cascading down the contours of his skeletal face only to be extinguished upon their final fall. 

“Yes,” he continued to muse as he felt himself numbly descending into the figurative abyss. “I'm dying.” 

His eyes slowly closed, a look of peace and quiet resignation etching itself upon his once-handsome face as he relinquished all consciousness at last.


End file.
